


More Than Kisses

by Rozarka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-06
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozarka/pseuds/Rozarka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the war ends, Viktor and Hermione have been pen friends for years. Meeting face to face again is a confusing transition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gfeather for the 2007 viktorhermione ficathon.

_It takes two to write a letter as much as it takes two to make a quarrel.  
~Elizabeth Drew_

***

"I'm sorry, Krum, I can't tell you that," said Remus Lupin, eyeing him calmly over their teacups in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.

***

"I've no idea," said Harry, shrugging uncomfortably. "I've no idea because Hermione didn't _want_ anyone to know."

"Yeah," confirmed a narrow-eyed Ronald Weasley. "And I guess since she didn't tell you, she didn't want _you_ to know either, eh, Krum?"

***

He checked at her parents' address in Kensington, where he'd sent so many letters by owl over summer and Christmas holidays. When he rang the bell next door, the woman told him after some hesitation that the Grangers had been gone over a year, that the flat was being sublet to a nice young professional couple.

"With one of those enormous Alsatian dogs," she warned him not too subtly, with a suspicious scowl at his foreign manner and swirling dark robes.

***

"Harry told me you might come around," said Ginny Weasley. Hovering inches above ground on her broomstick, she watched him, not without sympathy but clearly itching to whiz back out above the Quidditch field to where her team waited. "Let it go, Viktor. She's been through hell and she needs some space, I suppose. All you can do is wait."

"Can't vait," he objected. "I can give her space only if I know vere to give it, but she ran avay." Despair crept into his voice, a hoarse oath. "Is not like her, to run avay. I vorry."

Ginny sighed. She made a slow circular swirl on her broomstick, not coy or teasing, merely a way to collect her thoughts.

"Try talking to McGonagall, the Headmistress," she said finally. "They might be in touch about her studies."

She kicked off the ground and was gone in a rush of wind and red hair.

***

Minerva McGonagall offered him steaming tea and crumbly whisky-laced biscuits on a rose patterned tray. "It's a pleasure indeed to see you again, Mr. Krum," she said with quite a bit of warmth. "Of course, we heard about your contribution in the war, in the defence of Durmstrang against the Death Eaters. That was a very brave stand."

"Ve vere over forty students, ex-students and teachers defending the school," said Viktor with a frown, "and I vos not close to being in command. But all that the papers vant to know, is that Krum did it."

A wry smile passed over her lips. "Some things never change, do they? You never seemed to shoulder fame too comfortably." She raised her wand and poured their tea. "Remus Lupin contacted me this morning, so I assume that I know why you have come."

Under her shrewd scrutiny, realising she was probably his last and best hope to learn what he wanted, Viktor felt oppressed by the urgency of his need. He stirred a lump of sugar into his tea with an agitation that made the silver spoon clang against fragile porcelain, provoking a censorious glance from the formidable woman opposite him.

"I know how it must look," he said quietly. "I know you all vant her to haff peace, and it looks like all I vant is disturb, like I do not respect..."

"It was a crush when you were both very young," she said, voice soft, eyes watching him intently. "And I saw, and appreciated, how well you treated Hermione back then. But perhaps she outgrew it, perhaps you have read too much into it."

"Read too much?" Viktor's mouth quirked into a tight smile. "Please, let me show you..." He reached inside his robes, drew out a minute box and tapped his wand to it, murmuring the enlarging spell. The box expanded to its original size and he opened the intarsia inlay lid. McGonagall leaned slightly forwards, viewing four years' worth of letters. Each one he had treasured, each one had got a response. Some of them he knew by heart.

"You can see that she has trusted me for a long time," said Viktor simply, "and that I haff valued her trust."

She nodded slowly, and he closed the lid, shrank the box again and put it carefully back in the secure pocket where it had been carried for years.

"Might I ask," she said, "what passed between you and Hermione before she ... left London?"

He'd been braced for it, but still felt his face flood with heat. "That is ... very personal question."

"But not unreasonable."

He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. "After her hearing, I came to see her in London." _She seemed glad to see me._ "Ve vent out for ... dinner. A dance." _She felt wonderful in my arms._ He raised his eyes. "It's not vot you think, maybe. Ve said good-bye at her door." _I was only going to kiss her cheek, I couldn't help she turned her mouth that way._ "She ... seemed to haff had a pleasant night." _She didn't want that kiss to end any more than I did._ "Ve agreed to see each other the next day."

"And did you?"

"No," he murmured. "The next morning I got a note from her, that she could not meet me yet, that she needed time, and vos going avay."

She sipped at her tea, eyeing him curiously. "You don't seem like the kind of man who will disregard a woman's explicit wishes, Krum."

He gave another grim smile. "I vos raised to show courtesy, that does not mean that I am alvays polite. If Hermione falls in love vith another man, it vill not be because I vos too vell-mannered to pursue her."

Her eyebrows arched, but she didn't give a comment to that. Presently, she asked him about the remaining staff, and the ongoing reformation of the Durmstrang institute. He'd usually have been happy to discuss it with her; she was an intelligent, experienced teacher and had interesting opinions about the subject. But his impatience simmered under the polite conversation, and he had to bite down on his wish to return to his request.

When she had made her excuses -- she had to return to her planning of the afternoon's classes -- and he had stood up to leave, she finally met his gaze with unreserved approval. He understood that he'd been tested somehow, although where he had managed to pass the examination he had no idea.

"Do you still stay in touch with Fleur Delacour -- that is, Fleur Weasley?"

"Ve send owls vith Christmas greetings," said Viktor, surprised. "And I met her once in the var."

"Her family owns a holiday property in La Roque, a little north of Avignon. It's called _'Les Vingt-Cinq Étés'_. As an old friend of hers, why don't you ... happen to be in the vicinity, and get in touch?"

He nodded slowly, wondering. "I may happen to do that. 'The Tventy-Five Summers'?"

"It's a place to start," McGonagall said briskly, walking him to the door. "I can give no guarantees that she will be there."

She wasn't talking about Fleur, he knew. "Of course."

He took her offered hand and bent over it, grazing the thin dry skin lightly with his lips. When he looked up, she was smiling as though she could not resist doing so.

"Do not waste it on me, young man," she said, a twinkle in her stern, grey gaze as she closed the door.

***

The garden of the Delacour family's summer house was a wonder. A small river wound through it, flowing right under the cream-rose stone of the house, an old mill which had been built to span it. The river banks had been fortified with the same kind of stone and golden tile to a pristine canal carrying crystal green water. On its surface, in honour of the night's party, floated paper boats carrying fairies with lamps to spread a soft light.

On both sides of the canal stretched jade lawns, small paths edged with palms and cypresses, lavender beds and oak trees trained with clematis and rambling roses. The terrace in front of the house was equally opulent; lilies, figs and pomegranates planted in large terracotta urns, vines trailing everywhere, a fountain with a mermaid flicking water from her shining tail. Viktor stood leaning against a column, sipping from his wine glass and talking Quidditch, cornered by another guest -- which seemed to always be his fate at social gatherings.

Fleur, circulating between the guests, stopped by and hooked her arm in his, pulling him away a little.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Veektor?" She looked impishly pleased with herself and he knew he was supposed to say something complimentary. Not that it was a hardship.

He gave a nod in the general direction of the house and the garden stretching away from it. "You alvays seemed secure in your superiority," he offered, with a wry smile to take any bite away from the words. "It is not hard to see vy."

She grinned. "Ah, zees ees nothing. You should see my _grandmére_ 's mansion outside Paris."

"Maybe another time." Viktor looked around, as he'd been doing for the last hour. "She is not coming, is she?" he said.

"Wait and see. It ees early night, yet." She raised an eyebrow to him. "I will take you to meet Bill and my little Pierre. You will not mention our ... talk about Hermione, _d'accord_?"

Viktor frowned. "Your husband doesn't know vy I am here, then?"

" _Mon dieu, non_ \-- Bill knows you are 'ere and Ron 'as told 'im you've been looking for Hermione, but I've not told 'im zat I invited her too, or 'e might warn her." Fleur shrugged with no sign of remorse, the impish look back. "Weasleys are nice, but zey are always so bloody sure zey are right," she confided. "You cannot negotiate with a Weasley, you just 'ave to get around 'im somehow." 

Viktor had to laugh at the look on her face: mixed frustration and delight, as though the challenge of dealing with Weasleys, including her husband, was something she had learnt to look upon as a good bracing sport.

"Ah, zere you are, _chéri_." She reached out and took the baby out of her husband's arms, and Bill Weasley grinned at Viktor as Fleur cradled the child possessively. " _Ah, mon petit trésor, tu es tellement fatigué_..." She looked up at Viktor, blue eyes brimming with pride. "Is 'e not ze most tranquil and contented baby you 'ave ever seen?"

Pierre seized this moment to open his toothless little mouth to a ravenous, ear-splitting bawl, and they all laughed.

"I will take 'im inside and feed 'im," said Fleur to Bill, rocking the baby, "and zen you can put 'im to--"

"Hello, Fleur, Bill -- sorry I'm late," said a young, thin woman coming out from the house, smiling at the hosts. In the next instant, she turned her gaze to Viktor and dropped her glass to the tile floor, crystal splinters and golden wine spattering from the impact.

"Hermione!" Bill stared in alarm from her to Viktor, both standing as frozen, even as Fleur placidly waved her wand to clean up the mess and repair the glass. She fetched Hermione a filled glass from the tray on the table and handed it to her with a kiss on the cheek. 

"'Ere you are, darling. I am so glad you could come. 'Ow are you?"

"You knew that she--" Bill's eyes narrowed at his wife. "Why, you scheming little--"

"Oh, shut your mouth," said Fleur with equal parts affection and annoyance, cradling Pierre in her right arm and slipping her left into Bill's, effectively dragging him towards the door. "You are such a bloody Weasley, _chéri_ , and Weasleys are so bloody English, and ze English do not know ze first _zing_ about romance!"

*** 

Hermione was biting her lip, red-faced and avoiding his gaze, her hand rising to her close-cropped head to push back a non-existent mane of hair. He'd noticed her doing it repeatedly on the night before she disappeared; an involuntary gesture like a response to phantom pain. She was wearing a blue summer dress that wrapped across her front, a soft style that couldn't conceal how thin she still was. 

"Hermione," he murmured in greeting, just to break the pressing silence.

She still wouldn't look at him. "I told you I needed time, Viktor," she said very quietly.

All at once, he was choking on the hurt he'd suppressed all the while he was looking for her. "Yes," he admitted. "If by 'tell' you mean 'write note of two lines that explain nothing,' you did tell me."

She swallowed; he could see her throat working. "That's not fair. I ... didn't know _how_ to explain. I didn't know what the hell I felt," she whispered, "only that I needed ... space. To get away someplace where I could hear myself think."

He was aware of his hands shaking; feeling liquid spill onto the back of his hand he carefully placed his glass on the table. "I see. So I am being unfair, vhile you are the one has been nothing but fair."

"Viktor, I--"

But he'd more to get off his chest, ignoring the dismay in her voice. "And if it had been opposite -- if ve had kissed that vay, and I had been the one who vanished next day leaving you note that said nothing, you vould of course haff found this, also, to be only fair. You vould not haff been scared, not hurt, not at all."

She raised her gaze to him in something like alarm. "I was going to write to you, Viktor, I've been meaning to -- I'm so sorry." 

The shame in her eyes stopped him in his stride, as effectively as a punch to the gut. All the worry, the self-righteous rhetoric formed in his mind during the week he'd spent tracking her down, was engulfed by a helpless, hot flare of tenderness -- the protective feeling this complicated, singular girl had always sparked in him despite all her capable ways.

He ran his palm down over his face, as though to rub away traces of his outburst. No, Hermione wasn't the kind to run away, so he supposed she didn't deserve to stand accused as though she were.

"Vill you valk vith me?" he asked. He almost offered his arm, but restrained the automatic courtesy. It seemed wise to wait to get even a little bit physical until he'd got some sort of idea what was going through her mind.

Hermione nodded, and walked at his side down the few steps from the terrace.

"Is beautiful garden," he said after a minute, since being inane seemed a fractionally better conversation starter than being mute. 

Her mouth quirked, if tensely. "Oh, this is nothing. You should see the front garden of my granny's semi-detached in Ipswich," she offered back, such a deadpan British parody of Fleur's teasing hauteur that it startled a brief laugh out of him. But when he met her gaze, he saw that her smile hadn't reached her eyes. They were uncertain and solemn, still showing a trace of shock at his anger. "I really am sorry," she said. "I didn't think ... I suppose I didn't _let_ myself think you would take it so hard."

He stopped and threw her a sharp glance. Shook his head, bewildered, and started walking again. She followed every pause and step, so in tune with him now, as she had seemed on the evening they had spent together, and in the embrace and the kiss they had shared. That was what nagged at him the most, he realised -- how he could have misread her reactions so badly, when he had thought that he knew her so well.

But the girl he'd thought he knew, the Hermione from her letters, wasn't quite the same as the young woman beside him. Or not all of her, at least, and not at all unchanged over four years, either. He heard McGonagall's words again -- _maybe you've read too much into it_ \-- and clenched his jaw.

They reached the small blue-painted, wrought-iron bridge across the canal, and when he stopped at the halfway point, leaning on the railing, she stood straight and quiet beside him, so tense he could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head.

"Tell me," he said gently, addressing the crystal green water rather than Hermione, "did I offend you, that night? Or scare you?" He'd been sexually aggressive, his self control slipping as he got carried away for a moment, he knew that.

She shook her head in immediate denial. "No. No, Viktor, you didn't. You ... confused me, but not in a way that could really be helped, perhaps. And I ... managed to scare myself, I think."

He bowed his head. She took a careful step closer, leaning her arms on the railing beside him, almost accidentally close, but when her right arm came to rest touching his left, he knew it was no accident. Now, with his temper spent, and his fears calmed by the solid presence of her beside him, what was left was a tender urge to make this easier for her. And the need to understand.

He turned to her, his large hand lightly grazing her small one before curving around it, plaiting their fingers together. "Tell me," he murmured again.

***

Hermione stood beside him for a good while, watching the water flow by as she tried to figure out where to start. Viktor's physical presence -- the press of his hand, the warmth of his tall lean body grazing hers, was distracting. It sent flickers of memory through her, of a gasping rush of feeling as an eighteen year old boy pressed a gentle first kiss on her lips, of a spring evening by the Hogwarts greenhouses when she'd been shocked into a discovery of true desire and bolted like a frightened hare, of the night a week ago when an awkward, quick embrace between long-distance friends had spun fast out of control.

It had always been like that between them, the latent sexuality like tinder ready for the smallest spark -- she'd had a week to think about it and remember. It was only years of communicating at a distance that had lulled her into an illusion of something else. 

"Your letters," she said, at last, softly. "Do you have any idea what they've meant to me for the past four years?"

He chuckled, an uncertain sound. "Death by boredom?" he suggested, and she stared up at him in surprised protest as she realised it was only half meant as a joke. "Quidditch and studies. I haff no gift for make interesting writing, not like you. And my English is--" He grimaced and shrugged. "Vell. I tried."

She frowned. "Maybe I should rephrase. To have you to write to, no matter what happened, to know you would read it all, and reply to my rambling anxieties or enthusiasm with ... with humour and kindness." She pressed his hand hard, all of a sudden. "You have been such a good friend to me. I must have tried your patience, many times."

Viktor squeezed her hand back, but hesitated for long seconds before he said quietly, "I never needed patience, I vos happy for all your letters."

Which couldn't exactly be true. She knew at least one that must have hurt him, if the feelings he'd revealed in the past week were anything to go by. She'd written to him at length about Ron ... about getting together with him, as well as the break-up a couple of months later. How selfish and presumptuous had that been? Yet Viktor had been the obvious one to confide in, for her. Not too close and judgemental, like Ginny, or her mother. Not too grown-up and reserved, like Remus or McGonagall. Not ... well, slightly dense about such things, like Harry. Just Viktor, her gallant first suitor, her long-distance big brother, her quirky, wise ... pen friend.

Her heart sank as she noticed Viktor's disheartened look and realised that her words couldn't have seemed a very promising prelude. "I'm not explaining this well. Or starting in the right place. Viktor, when you left Hogwarts, at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, I was fifteen." She blushed. "I mean, I was very _young_. A bit too young to be completely ... comfortable yet, about the feelings you'd stirred in me. Both the emotions, and the ... the, um, physical ... stuff."

Viktor's eyebrows climbed a notch, which she'd learned four years ago was a certain sign of amusement. "The ... stuff?"

She sighed, exasperated with herself. What was she, still fifteen? "Don't tease me," she pleaded. "I'm not really very experienced at talking about this sort of, um ..."

"...Stuff?" Viktor helped her, his mouth quirking up too, now.

"Er, yes." She laughed despite herself. "I actually suspect I may be awful at it."

"Try anyvay. I vill not tease," he promised, eyes warm. 

"Well, you see--" She took a deep breath. "I know you were sad to leave me, at the end of that year. But for me it was a relief, in some ways. I loved talking to you and I ... I loved it when we kissed, too, but ... the last few weeks before the challenge in the maze, things had got more intense than I was ready for, frankly. I think you know, because you backed away a bit after one incident."

"Yes, I know. That is, I knew. That evening by the greenhouse," Viktor said softly. "I felt bad about that."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything outrageous. It's just, I'd more or less lived in my head for fifteen years. Oh, I imagined I knew so much, but I just wasn't prepared for the reality of ... wanting someone like that." Her face felt hot again; she didn't think she'd ever be able to think of that particular incident without her cheeks flaming. "My body was racing ahead of my mind, when it had always been the other way around."

"So ven I vent avay--"

"You became simply my friend again. Like you'd been when we'd talked and got to know each other before the Yule Ball, and it felt so safe, such a relief. At a distance, you were just the gentle, understanding older boy, like a ... a big brother, almost. And after four years of it, that was who I'd expected to meet last week." She lightly tugged her hand out of his grip, hugging her arms self-consciously. "I'd looked forward to it. I was so bone tired; I felt like an exhausted, empty well and it seemed everyone else wanted to wring the last drops out of me..."

She shivered despite the balmy night, feeling the tense knots of stress in her body start tightening again just at the thought of the preceding weeks. The court had just about wrung her soul inside out in the hearing -- she shuddered remembering the helpless nakedness of interrogation under the effect of Veritaserum, which she had finally consented to behind closed doors -- and the reporters had been tearing at her like vultures ready to strip a carcass. "My friends hovered, wanting to help, wanting me to _talk it out_ ... but I'm not used to talking it out. My two closest friends are _boys_ , and not the most sensitive and aware sort, either. I just wanted to scream at them all to leave me alone." She smiled thinly. "I suppose I did, a couple of times. I know I actually made Remus wince and leave the room on one occasion -- werewolf hearing is sharp."

"I think I see." Viktor's voice was careful. "You needed something from me, and instead, you discovered I vanted something from you, too."

She swallowed, feeling awful. It sounded so selfish, put like that. "I'm sorry."

He stood up, watching her with dark inscrutable eyes. "There isn't need for you to be sorry. But you had never become simply a friend, to me."

"I realised that, and right then, it was the one drop too much -- one more demand on me than I could handle, one more thing spinning out of my control."

He studied her in silence for a while, and when she got awkward under his scrutiny and dipped her head, he lightly cupped her chin in his fingers and raised it a fraction, then let his palm drift down her neck, to her shoulder, stroking the bare skin gently, and it felt so good -- just the sensual comfort of it -- that she could cry. "I could see that you vere tired; I vos going to be so careful ... I meant to be. It vos you started that kiss," he said; stating it matter-of-factly, no recrimination.

"I know." She squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly trembling faced with his unrelenting gentleness. God, it was intolerable, this humiliating lack of resolve. 

Viktor's hand stilled for a second; then his thumb rubbed lightly over a hot betraying trail at her temple.

"And then I ... was confused," she got out in a whisper. "Scared that I'd made you expect too much. Guilty in case I had. Angry with you, for stepping out of the letters and coming to me with ... hopes and needs of your own."

"It vos just a kiss, _lyubima_." Incongruously, she heard a smile in his voice, and met his gaze again. His tense expression had resolved in a sweet relief that she couldn't quite process. He drew his wand from his side, and waved it over the bridge railing, murmuring something under his breath that must be a charm in Bulgarian. One of the paper boats rose from the water, unfolding and refolding itself to a paper swallow; then, as the swallow flew towards them, Viktor turned her palm upwards and the bird alighted there, shaping itself to a paper rose that next turned into a real rose, shimmering creamy-white in the evening dusk. A tiny lamp fairy climbed out of the dew-wet petals, shaking itself and appearing thoroughly exasperated. It jumped up and tweaked Viktor's nose before diving for the railing and from there into another boat.

Hermione stared after the fairy, then up at Viktor, realising that she was in tears and giggling and really had no idea what to do next.

"Perhaps it is time for you to--" Viktor hesitated, pensively rubbing his nose where the fairy had pinched it. "Give yourself break, is this correct vay to say?" When she gave an uncertain nod, he continued. "Perhaps it is time you trust that I vill also give you break. That I vill give you space." He breathed deeply. "If you vill give me a chance, to step out of letters. Only a chance."

She'd already parted her lips to give her answer, but before she could say a word, there was a crack and at once she stood there alone, holding the rose in her open palm, staring into the empty air where Viktor had just been.

***

"Where Veektor ees staying?" Fleur leaned languorously back in her garden chair. "Well, per'aps I don't know," she said with a playful smirk, "and per'aps I do."

"And _per'aps_ ," said Hermione, sighing through clenched teeth, "I will hex your fancy French _derrière_ from here to next Sunday unless you drop the pretence and let me know. We both know that you invited me here tonight so that Viktor and I would meet."

"But it would depend on what you want 'im for, _non_?" said Fleur, quite unruffled. "To tell ze truth, you look a little upset, Hermione. If you only want to find zat beautiful man in order to yell at 'im--" She shrugged. "I would not want to 'elp you 'urt Veektor."

Hermione had a protest ready, but let out her breath and shook her head. "It's turned out that I'm quite capable of hurting Viktor without anyone's help," she said evenly, "and how we dealt with that is none of your business. Fleur, for heaven's sake stop fishing for information and _tell_ me."

Fleur feigned shock, her fingertips placed dramatically over her heart, but didn't bother to hide the smug curl of her lips. "I knew you would see sense, _chérie_. Veektor would be so good for you, you know."

"Has it occurred to you," snapped Hermione, "that I might not be so good for Viktor?"

Fleur nodded slowly, with an expression so alert and knowing that Hermione immediately knew she'd been set up with perfect, kind-hearted guile. "Zat worries you, yes?"

Blindsided, Hermione sank down in the chair next to Fleur's, just staring down at her own clenched hands on her knees. "I ... I don't know, Fleur. It's not quite that selfless, I'm afraid. Oh yes, I worry that I've little to offer him back, yet. But I'm also a bit ... resentful of the responsibilities of being with someone. This spring, at Malfoy Manor ... it was two months of walking a tightrope, heart in my throat, with an audience that would love nothing better than to see me fall, and then ... I fell," she whispered bleakly. "And then there were weeks struggling just to stay alive, with Snape and the rats for company."

"And after ze war, more weeks 'aving to justify you and 'im, both, to too many people." Fleur reached out and squeezed her hand briefly, and Hermione looked down in surprise. Such earnest gestures were rare from Fleur.

"Exactly." She pressed her lips together, thinking it over for a minute. "I'm jealous of my privacy, now. It's not that Viktor's expectations are unreasonable, it's just that they're ... there."

Fleur nodded again. "It sounds familiar."

"You mean ... you and Bill?" Hermione's eyes widened. "After Greyback's attack?"

" _Absolument_. Bill tried to drive me away, you know, and when zat did not work, tried to run away, thinking 'e could not offer me what I deserved. And 'e also felt my love was a ... burden. One more emotional demand, when 'e was wounded, and needed 'is strength for 'imself." Fleur shook her head passionately, even though she'd been speaking with perfect clear acceptance. "I understand zat reaction, but 'e was wrong! I needed to give to Bill, and Bill needed what I 'ad to give. And I knew it. I didn't let 'im get away."

There was a ferocious glint in Fleur's eyes that told Hermione that Bill had been put under considerable pressure to surrender his pride. But thinking of Bill now, she also sensed that Bill was probably very glad for that, in retrospect. She frowned, though, and shook her head.

"But you were already lovers. Viktor and I, we've just been ... friends. Pen friends, at that."

" _Non_ , zat's rubbish, _chérie_! Zat man 'as been in love with you for a long time. And I can tell you are not exactly indifferent to 'im either, or why agonise like you do? If Veektor 'as got patience and comfort to offer you, it ees 'is choice, and offered freely." Fleur narrowed her eyes suddenly. "You can be so arrogant, Hermione. It ees a Gryffindor trait, I zink, 'ow you can never allow anyone else ze upper 'and. Or maybe you 'ave been around Weasleys too much."

Hermione couldn't help herself, she burst out laughing. "You are one to talk, though."

Fleur raised her eyebrows. " _Mais non._ I am immune; I am French," she said with a sarcastic smirk.

***

Viktor, Fleur said, stayed in the small guest cottage at the southwest corner of the property. She pointed from the terrace -- _"Zere, just beyond ze peach orchard"_ \-- and Hermione retraced her steps to the bridge where she and Viktor had talked, passing it and continuing away from the music and the party lights, into the deepening, quiet shadows of the garden.

The guest cottage lay in a garden of its own, the house small and glowing faintly honey-pink among peach trees and huge rose bushes, window boxes trailing geraniums and columbine. On the lawn in front stood a wooden garden table with two wrought-iron chairs. She could feel the wards around the house tingle and shimmer away around her like receding water as she stepped through them easily. She'd been invited inside.

He was sitting hitched up on the edge of the table, and looked up at her and got to his feet as she appeared.

Hermione cast only a cursory glance around before fixing her gaze on Viktor. He stood there seemingly entirely relaxed, alert yet thoughtful, his head cocked slightly as he returned her gaze. An abrupt surge of adrenaline sent her striding towards him, heart pounding, and she halted only a step away.

"What did you disappear for?" she demanded in a whisper.

"Am giving you space," he replied calmly. "To make sure I do not impose, instead I let you come to me."

She didn't know what she was going to do before she'd raised her hand and shoved it against him, palm flat on his chest, sending him a couple of steps back. "Quit playing with me!" 

His eyes were bemused, as he steadied himself. "To me, looks like it is you vant to be playing." 

Hermione's face burned. She stared at him, then raised both her hands and repeated the provocation. Because that was what it was, she knew. Defiant, excited, scared, her anger conjured from some feeling that just ached for him to touch her.

But this time he didn't stumble back. He caught her wrists in one hand and drew her gently, inexorably closer. "I vill not play this game, _mila_ ," he murmured, his lips finding the upper curve of her ear, naked and exposed without the bushy hair to hide it. "Is fighting the only vay you remember how to play?"

The touch, and the words, sent a shockwave through her. She started shaking. "I've had enough of cruel games to last me a lifetime."

"Good." Viktor's lips had moved, feather-light, to her cheek. "Then vot do you vant?"

"I want ... whatever happens between us to be honest and real," she said in a rush. "Like in the letters. To be familiar. To accept and be accepted. Warts and all."

A smile crept into his voice. "You vant me to bore you vith Quidditch recap?"

She choked out a laugh. "That would be wonderful. If I can bore you with the latest history tome I've been reading."

"I not find that boring, Hermione."

"Well, and I actually enjoy Quidditch recaps, when it's you giving them."

Viktor took a step back, tilting his head. The warmth in his eyes made her dizzy, and she caught herself slightly swaying. "I know a different game," he murmured, "a kinder game, if you vill let me show you."

She shook her head, smiling with a lightness rising within like sunshine. "I hate to break your illusions, but I know about sex, Viktor."

"I am glad." His sly grin flashed white in his tan face. "But this is somevot different game."

She looked at him uncertainly, and he turned and walked towards the door of the cottage, looking back over his shoulder. "Vait here, yes?"

He was gone only for seconds, perhaps still not quite confident that she wouldn't capriciously disappear again, and he actually seemed a little shy as he showed her what he held in his hand.

She raised her eyebrows. "A potion? Viktor, I don't think--"

"No potion," he hurried to interject. "Is oil. Of _Rosa Damascena_."

"Bulgarian attar of roses?" It was one of the most costly and precious perfumes, and used in many love potions, she knew, although she'd never paid much attention to that brand of magic. Then, she noticed the throw he carried over his arm -- she'd thought it was a cape, first. Abruptly, she understood, and felt a flood of heat wash through her body, into her face. "Massage oil?"

It was hard to tell in the dusk, and with his darker skin, but she had a notion that Viktor looked about as flushed as she felt. "If this is presumptuous idea--"

She chewed on her bottom lip. "I ... I don't know. You ... came here ... bringing massage oil?"

Viktor was looking decidedly anxious, now. "I asked my sister-in-law in Sofia, vot to do for voman who is sad and veary and needs relax. I told her you looked so ... like you carried vorld upon your shoulders, and forgot to put it down again." He gave a diffident shrug. "She said, rose oil massage. And I only mean, rub your back, your shoulders. But if this offends, I apologize," he said softly.

"Don't apologize." She took a shaky breath, and with Fleur's advice in mind, acted before she had time to think anymore. It was Viktor's gift, freely offered, and of all the men she knew, he was one of the few whom she'd trust with that kind of promise. If anything, a small mocking voice in her mind told her that she had less faith in her own pure intentions than in his. Slowly, she turned a little to the side, slipping free the tied ribbon and the few buttons that held her wrap dress together. It fell open and she let it slide down to her feet.

It was a challenge in itself to turn back to face him. She knew she was skinny still after captivity and starvation, hollow and hard in places where women were supposed to be soft and supple. Her underwear was decent but nothing special; unadorned black cotton, the bra padded to compensate for her thin shape, and it troubled her that he would notice that sign of vanity. Of inadequacy. God. She raised her hand to her hair, that stupid futile gesture that she couldn't seem to stop making, but there was still nothing to hide behind.

"Stop that." He'd taken a step closer. "You are beautiful." He ran his fingers gently over the curve of her head, his voice gone hoarse. " _Si krasiva, mila._ "

She smiled slightly. "If you say so."

Viktor frowned. "You mean, the hair? I like you, like this. But if it bothers you much, there are potions, and charms, to make grow faster."

"No," said Hermione, shaking her head. "This is me, now, I suppose. My hair will grow out, but I need time to grow into it again, too." She looked around, self-consciously, needing to escape his intense scrutiny. "So, where do you want to..."

"A moment." He put the flacon of oil on the garden table, and spread out the throw on the grass, then took his wand and said a cushioning charm. "Tell me, if you not lie comfortable."

Hermione looked doubtfully down at the throw, glowing burgundy velvet on the rich dusk shadow of the grass. Viktor was folding up his sleeves, revealing long strong forearms, the skin shaded with dark hair, and the motions and the sight of him were making her break out in goosebumps, the down on her own skin rising in full sensual alert. Her heart thumping painfully, she knelt down on her knees, then eased down on her stomach.

It was like lying on an air mattress, and it dipped under his weight as he climbed up beside her. But his fingers felt weightless as they found her nape and brushed lightly through her cropped curls, making her scalp tingle. She sensed the warmth of his body right next to her, and tried to breathe calmly to stop herself from shivering.

And then ... nothing. She wondered at the delay, caught in a delicious hell of anticipation, before an aromatic scent told her what was going on: he was warming the oil in his hands. Her nostrils flared to take in the fragrance. The damask rose scent was unmistakable, rich and sweet, yet delicate and tender, and there were other notes under it. Some warming spice, some herbs; lavender -- and eucalyptus? No, not at all as sharp as eucalyptus. Myrtle, maybe, green, the Australian kind --

His palms found her back, slick with oil heated by his skin, and it felt like a benign electrical shock. His hands were calloused, his fingers strong and gentle. Hermione was biting down hard on her lip, going rigid despite herself. So long since anyone touched her bare skin with any intent but harm. A small sound, almost like a hiccupy sob forced itself from her throat, and the hands on her went quite still.

"Hermione..." So tender. She drew in breath in a quavering soundless gasp.

"I'm all right--"

His hands slid down from her shoulders, touched her own which were clenched into fists and holding onto the edge of the throw for dear life. He smoothed his thumbs over the back of her hands, silently asking her to haul anchor and drift free.

"Just start without me," she joked feebly. "I'll catch up."

There was silence while she collected herself, until finally he murmured, "Is no hurry. All night, if you vant, if you need ..." His hands encircled her wrists loosely and slid up her arms, then down again. Over and over, coaxing her locked arms to unclench, her palms to open.

Viktor wasn't satisfied until her palms were resting open, her arms so loose that he could place them at her sides. Then his hands returned upward, spanning the knobby ridges of her shoulders. His thumbs pressed down on the muscles running horizontal from the spine across her shoulder blades, while the rest of his fingers gently rubbed the shallow slopes just above her collarbone. The oil smoothed every motion to a sensuous, gliding caress. Some tension in her neck gave with an audible pop -- five months' accumulation of fear, determination and anger loosening in exquisite pleasure-pain -- and she cried out as her head sank forward, cheek pressing against the cushioned throw.

" _Prosti mi, lyubima_." She felt a brief, apologetic brush of lips, of breath, at her neck. "That hurt, did it?" 

"Yeah ... but _good_. Necessary." Her voice was so raspy she had to clear her throat. "Where did you learn to do this?"

"Zhelev -- manager of Vratsa Vultures? He often orders massage for players, before match. To help against tension, to calm and clear the mind."

She felt a small, irrational sting of jealousy. "Given by a beautiful, buxom masseuse, no doubt."

"Absolutely not. No vomen allowed on the night before match," he told her seriously. "Is a huge fat man, a Russian. Boris," said Viktor, laughing a little. "Is not beautiful, Boris, but he does give decent massage."

Hermione laughed, too. "I'm relieved to hear it's decent, in that case."

"Anyvay -- vot does it mean, buxom?" he added, still kneading smoothly over the planes of her upper back.

"Never mind," she said hurriedly, none too eager to try to translate.

"No, you haff to tell me." His tone was so sweetly wicked that she suspected he at least guessed at the notion of female pulchritude. "If not, you know I vill look up in book."

She blushed, glad he couldn't see -- then raised her hands awkwardly along her sides, to hastily describe vague, generous curves along her own, less than buxom shape.

"You know ... big. Tits. Breasts."

For long, helpless seconds, Viktor's hands lay still on her -- then he resumed the massage. "Vell, in that case, I haff to say that Boris is probably quite ... vot you said. Buxom," he said sardonically. "But thank God, I haff not seen."

Hermione lay shaking, her shyness gone in a fit of giggles. She'd forgotten, somehow, how easily Viktor made her laugh, how often she would read out a line or two of his letters to Ginny, or to her mother when she was at home in the holidays. She heard him chuckling, too, and felt a wave of such affection, it sucked the breath right out of her.

He was pressing his thumbs in firm circles down either side of her spine now, and she pushed her back out like a cat to get the best of the pressure, nearly purring. His fingers reached the clasp of her bra, and she tensed in a reaction she could only honestly describe as anticipation. She heard a responding catch in his breath, but he hesitated only for the briefest moment before his fingers moved across the narrow strip of cloth, continuing the massage below it.

But that moment of not knowing, that low throaty gasp, had been enough. The physical well-being that his touch had built up in her turned on her in a second, the sensuous relaxation transforming to a sharp-fanged wave of desire. Hermione shivered, and heard the groan out of her mouth before she could stop it. His arms slid to her shoulders, around her, containing her tension gently, patiently. 

"Please, trust me. Nothing you don't vant." Viktor's voice was gravelly and unsteady, and when did he bring his mouth to her temple, his hot breath over her cheek? She turned her head to meet his gaze, as far as he would allow her.

"And what if I do want?" she whispered.

His palm slid over her shoulder, back and forth, his passionate gaze softening with a smile. "Then that can also be arranged. After back rub."

She gave a small moan as she let her head fall back. "I feel so silly."

"Vy is that? You are anything but silly."

"Because I ... freaked out so over that clinch last week. And here I am begging you to finish it. I hate not knowing my own mind."

He laughed low. " _Mila_ , you know your mind better than is good for anyone, at times. Let this be vot it is. Something good for you." She felt a kiss on her shoulder, next. "Good for me, too."

He stroked his hands down her spine, splaying out over her lower back and pressing in light, rhythmic pushes. Hermione closed her eyes as her mound was pushed into the yielding firmness of the cushioned blanket, indirect stimulation that still was focussed enough to make her squirm.

"I hope Boris doesn't do this to you," she murmured.

"Oh, he does. But I haff no ... favourable reaction to Boris."

Slowly, Hermione reached behind her back and unclasped the bra. "I have a favourable reaction to you," she whispered. Blushing but feeling daring and giddy and like something good was happening for the first time in too long to even remember, she turned in his arms, and lay on her back looking up into his dark eyes.

Viktor drew a deep breath. "You do, hm?"

She whimpered as he moved his hands to ease the shoulder straps down her arms, lightly stroking down the sides of her breasts in the same movement, lingering there a while. He threw the bra to the side, and a second later, his fingertips found her nipples. Stroking gently, so gently, and she was so ready for it, so sensitive, that the gentleness was exactly right. She closed her eyes, moaning and sliding her thighs together.

"Did you know," she whispered, "you gave me my first orgasm?"

Viktor bent to kiss her neck. "I had vondered," he admitted.

"That day ... by the greenhouses. I ran to the first hidden spot I saw, in a corner between two outhouses. I hardly knew what I was doing, I only knew I _had_ to do something or I'd go crazy. I leaned against the wall, put my hand under my skirt and ... just pressed against it." Viktor groaned and muttered something into her skin, and she sighed, arching her neck to give him better access. "I think it took ... ten seconds, at the most, before I came. I thought I would die. When I came to my senses again, I was on my knees, and I'd bitten my lip so it bled, to keep quiet. After a couple of minutes, Neville came around the corner. I have no idea to this day if he saw or heard or guessed anything. At least I do think I'd got my hand out of my knickers by then."

Viktor raised himself on his elbow, looking down at her without comment, although his eyes were blazing.

She swallowed. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Am vaiting," said Viktor darkly, "for blood to return to my brain."

"Oh."

"Oh."

"Any luck?" she added after a minute.

Viktor laughed. "Not much." He leaned down, his eyes falling closed a second before his lips found hers, tender and searching. Hermione parted her lips softly to the slow gliding warmth of his tongue and put her arms around his neck. 

"That is vy you could not meet my eyes next day," he murmured against her lips.

"Yeah. I thought you must know what I'd done, and it was so embarrassing." She smiled. "I did think it was the most brilliant discovery, though. Even on a par with magic. I just wasn't ready to ... share it with you."

Viktor slipped his hand under the waist elastic of her knickers. "But now you are."

Her stomach tightened in anticipation, and she released an unsteady sigh. "It would seem so."

The knickers were eased down her legs, and she helped kick them off, and managed to slide a few of his shirt buttons open and unbuckle his belt, distracted by his roaming hands and more sensual kisses, before Viktor reached for his wand that lay in the grass next to the flacon of oil. Realising what he intended, she lay still as he pointed the tip to her lower belly, speaking a contraceptive charm with quiet concentration. Putting the wand away, he took the glass flacon again, ignoring her impatient whimper as he unstopped the cork and poured some of the oil into his cupped hand.

"I thought we were done with the massage," she said, trying without luck to keep a plaintive whine out of her voice.

Fixing her with an amused, but heated look, Viktor rubbed his palms together. "I forgot a spot." He lay down next to her again, leaning his head in to one of her breasts and suckling the hard tip into his mouth, his slick fingers circling and stroking the other. The sensation made her shudder and whine in a more approving way, as she shifted and tried to find some friction for the restless ache between her legs. Viktor's other hand teased up and down her inner thighs, gliding easily from the oil, slowing as he neared the apex of her thighs. Hermione slid her legs apart a little and gripped his arms with her fingers, whimpering quietly. She felt so swollen and wet, so sensitive she was close to panic, afraid his touch there would be too much, yet barely able to stand waiting another second for it.

Without hurry, his fingers traced between her legs down to the curve of her behind, the dip underneath it, so close he must be feeling the sticky wetness from her, and it made her squirm and sob with the need to feel his fingers inside.

"Shh," he soothed her. "You vant this? You vant--?" A blunt finger nudged at her folds, gently pressing them apart, and held there, still only skirting her. " _Bozhe moy_ ," he breathed, carefully testing her wetness.

"Viktor," she cried out softly, "please, I need, need to feel you."

He groaned as he entered her, not one finger but two at once, thick pressure moving in slowly, ever so gently. Hermione was tossing her head and saying his name and then she felt his thumb come up to rub firm circles over her clit and it was like the ground slid out from under her, the slow giddy starting-to-fall sensation. The sounds coming from her throat seemed overdone, but she couldn't hold them back, couldn't control this. She tried so hard to control it because she had never -- had never expected anything so fast, so easy, like this --

"Let go," urged Viktor's voice, near her ear yet somehow distant as though heard through water. "Let it go," he said, and then he said, "Oh my love, my love..."

And she was climaxing in insanely sweet slow motion, honey-sticky pleasure curving and shooting through her pelvis and spine and limbs, her back and throat arching ... She sobbed out loud with the relief and the intensity of it and felt Viktor's strong arm catch her and cover her, nestling her against his chest, his mouth murmuring hoarsely against her ear.

She sagged against him, limp as a rag doll, his large trembling hand stroking her sweaty back, and his low, loving words gentling her as she shivered through the last, tingling shocks. 

When she'd got her breath back somewhat, he kissed her, moving his long fingers deeper, and she kissed him passionately back as she rocked to the rhythm of the thrusts, new waves of need building as she thought of having him inside her.

"Viktor," she moaned, her hands reaching for the zip in his trousers. "Want more. Want you."

He said something in Bulgarian, in a husky groan, as he helped her ease the zip open and pushed the trousers down on his hips. His cock lay long and hard against his stomach, and curious, Hermione curled her palm around him, watching in avid fascination while he sighed harshly and thrust into her soft grip.

Viktor raised himself up on the elbow of his free arm, regarding her with hooded, glazed eyes. "Vant me to make you scream vith how good you feel?" he asked, a smile softening the provocative words. "So loud, Fleur Veasley hears you and learns that the French are not the only ones know a _zing_ or two about romance?"

A half-choked laugh broke from her, helpless, reckless. "I dare you."

He positioned himself above her, and it occurred to her then that he wasn't even undressed, his shirt hanging open around them, trousers bunched on his hips, even his boots still on. But his eyes were narrowed in sensual concentration, so dark under long lashes, and her protest faded into a gasp of welcome as he started to push inside her. She arched her neck, whimpering at the sweet, aching pressure, and he stilled a moment, leaning down to kiss her before he shifted, reaching down a hand to cup her bottom as he pressed his hips forward again.

Her body clasped around him as he pushed up slowly, lazy thrusts gliding on her wetness until she felt his pelvic bone resting against hers. And it was tight and not without discomfort at first but it was glorious too, leaving her gasping, shaking and trying to tell, against his shoulder, just how full, how deep, how good...

"I know," he said in a whisper that was halfway to a laugh. "Feels good from here too, _mila_..."

He began moving in firm, sure strokes, and what was left of reason was blown to pieces in the impact of intense sensation. She wrapped her legs around him, her head turned to the side, hands grasping for his arms but bunching in the loose sleeves of his shirt instead, unwittingly tugging them down to his elbows.

Viktor moved over her steadily, lifting her to his rhythm with his hand, until the tension built to such a promise of pleasure that she lay quivering and pleading, saying his name on hitching gasps of breath. He slid his hand between them and rubbed her clit and she came, muffling her soft cry with her mouth pressed into his shoulder as she felt him shudder and release inside her, with shaky, hard thrusts and a hoarse, muttered stream of Bulgarian words.

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly as she drew back and saw his sated, amused expression. "Not much of a screamer, I'm afraid."

"Is okay," he assured her, but he was moving down her body even as he spoke, and before she'd had time to process what he was doing, his head was between her thighs, her still tingling clit in his mouth, and he drew on it firmly and gently and some seconds later another orgasm tore through her, astonishing her into a sharp drawn-out cry of his name, plaintive and high like a bird call.

"That ... that was a sneaky trick!" she gasped as she came down.

"Am sneaky," Viktor admitted, and added, with smirking lack of remorse, " _Enjoy_ being sneaky." 

"Well, I enjoyed it, too." She laughed a little as she regained her breath. "So I forgive you."

They lay in quiet contentment for a while, hands exploring curves and angles with a gentler curiosity, their breathing slowing into a relaxed pace again. Viktor's fingers were tracing patterns on her stomach, and she craned her neck to look. "It tickles," she said with a giggle. "What are you doing?"

"Writing you letter," said Viktor in all seriousness, stealing her breath away anew. She stilled and watched the trailing path of his finger curiously.

"What does it say?"

He moved back a little, closer to her stomach, as though to see better. "Let me read. _'Dear Hermione,'_ " he started earnestly, and she smiled over the familiar greeting.

"Good choice. And?"

" _'Sex vos lovely. Vant to do again? I vill still be your friend,'_ " said Viktor, following an imagined line of script with his index finger. He glanced up at her, blowing his long fringe out of his eyes, his expression somewhat uncertain.

She swallowed an unexpected rush of tears, the fierce emotion choking her voice as she pulled him up to her and into a hug.

"I would like that."

" _'Love, Viktor,'_ " he ended, again on a familiar note, but that note was struck sweeter and deeper than ever before, making her pulse race from something between diffidence and a heart-turning hope.

"Is there a bed in this house?" she asked, reining in her wobbly voice.

"A big one," Viktor said. "Vant to sleep?"

"Need to." She kissed him on the lips, feeling strangely shy as she traced a tentative line with her finger on his chest, over the solid calm beat of his heart. "And maybe tomorrow, I can write you a letter back?"

Viktor's eyes crinkled with a smile. Without a word, he got up, perfunctorily straightening his clothes before he reached a hand down to help her to her feet. "This sounds like plan," he said quietly. "Good plan."

***

"This is strange place," said Viktor, looking around as they sat in the garden the next day, sharing the breakfast that had been brought them by a house-elf. The light was intense, the clock climbing to midday. They'd spent the most of the morning in the soft opulence of the big oak bed inside.

She sipped at her bowl of café au lait, then dunked her chocolate croissant into it so that the chocolate melted and swirled, with an intent, distracted expression that he found adorable.

"Isn't it? _'Les Vingt-Cinq Étés'_. Twenty-five summers. Bill explained to me about the name once," she said. "Apparently, not long before the revolution, a witch of the Delacour family did the king of France a great service. She was given this property as a reward, and a powerful wizard at the king's court favoured it with an unusual spell, working only within the property's borders. Twenty-five summers, one for each of her years, that would start from necessity rather than from the year's turning. Fleur claims that they are up to the early twenties, and that the latest one came in the midwinter of 1981, after the first war against Voldemort ended."

Viktor leaned back. "You think this is another such summer? Here is very..." He searched for words. "Still very rich, here, much flowering--"

"Lush, for a late September," she agreed. "I know. Fleur believes it may be the start of a summer in winter, a compensation for a cold hard year. Isn't that a lovely sort of magic?" 

She raised her croissant to her mouth, dripping a small trail of chocolate on her hand and lips. Viktor smiled and leaned forwards to kiss it off her mouth, then ran his tongue across the back of her hand, still feeling Hermione's 'letter' written on his abdomen this morning, tingling with the clear, quiet words that she had traced with a gentle, wicked tongue.

"I need to go and borrow one of Fleur and Bill's owls," said Hermione, when the kiss that had grown out of his spontaneous gesture ended. "I should get a note to my parents, although I did say I might sleep over here if it got late."

"Your parents -- vere are they?"

"They're staying in a pension on the St. Tropez coast, one of the places we visited on our vacation before my third year at Hogwarts. They lived in one of the Order's safe houses during the war, and it was fairly claustrophobic. They needed a break before returning to their practice, and chose this, so that's where I went to," she explained, "when I ... disappeared."

He nodded. "And vot vill you return to?" he wondered. "Still plan to find job?" She'd talked about that, during dinner last week, to get work in a bookshop or a library, somewhere she connected with safety, he supposed.

But now, she hesitated. "I don't know any longer, frankly. There's my seventh year to take, still, but the school year's already started now. I could read and take notes, though. I doubt I'd have difficulty getting a job, but I ... I've found I feel too restless to settle into that sort of routine yet. I need more ..."

"Space," he said warmly, nodding understanding.

"Yeah. A taste of freedom, I guess," said Hermione, with a quick little shrug as though the idea was still new enough to feel awkward to talk about. "I may travel a bit. I think I might like that."

"I know of nice place in Bulgaria, in beautiful town called Vratsa," said Viktor. He leaned across the table and wound his fingers gently into her shorn brown curls, which were picking up rich hazel highlights in the sun. "It is small brick house, not so special, but has ... ambience, is this not vot they call in brochures?"

Her lips twitched. "I believe so."

"The sort of ambience, comes from untidy, busy Quidditch player, living on his own and being too lazy to take care of garden. But the host is much ... hospitable. To right sort of guest. Right sort of guest, can stay as long as she vants. Venever she comes."

"That sounds like a unique and wonderful offer," she said, smiling and leaning her cheek heavily into his palm, a welcome, trusting weight. "I think I shall have to give it a try, then, later in the autumn. And meanwhile we can write letters."

"Of course." Viktor laughed, then gave a rueful shrug, feeling a twinge of misgiving in the midst of all his hope. "Can not quite compete vith _this_ place, of course. No summers out of turn."

Hermione raised her cup to her lips, looking at him as she sipped. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," she whispered, immediately blushing bright red at her fancy and spilling milky coffee as her fingers shook.

But Viktor didn't mind, because he thought he understood very well what she meant, and that the description fit exactly. Also, it gave him an excuse to kiss her again. 

***

_'Dear Madame McGonagall,_

_Thank you so much for your kind letter. In response to your query, both I and Bill are in good health, Bill has had a chance to become considerably more accustomed to his situation since the war ended, and our little Pierre is magnificent and keeps us busy, sleepless and happy._

_As for your other concern, I did, as you requested, invite Hermione to our little summer house and made certain she would meet Viktor Krum there. Whether it is the magic of the house or the magic of compatible hearts, I don't know, but it seemed their problem had been resolved as they left. In fact, Viktor was going to St. Tropez with Hermione before returning to Bulgaria, and would be meeting her parents._

_I hope that you are also in the best of health, that the new year at Hogwarts is going well (and perhaps the renovations after the war damage, while bothersome, will also lead to some increased, welcome modern comforts?) and that we will see you when we next visit Britain. Bill meets Remus often in London, so we might some day meet at Harry's house, if not at the Burrow._

_Bill sends his warmest regards!_

_With all my respect and best wishes,_

_Always yours,_

_Fleur Delacour (Weasley)'_

***

"What's that you're reading?" said Harry, idly looking up from the chess board. "Can you at least pretend to focus on the game?"

"While you're thinking? You're as slow on your feet as a snail, mate," scoffed Ron. He waved a letter in the air. "This came by owl five minutes ago, while you were sitting there trying in vain to counter my brilliant move. It's from Hermione, written from some library in Budapest. Seems she's having a bloody good time on her travels. You know, in her own way."

"Good," said Harry, grinning quietly down at the chess board. "That's the best way."

Ron frowned, reading on. "Hey. It says she'll be going to Bulgaria after Hungary. That she may stay there over Christmas. Vratsa! Do you think--?"

"I do think," said Harry, moving his queen. "And good for her. Check."

"Huh. Well ... I suppose it is." Ron glanced at the board, put the letter away, and rubbed his hands together. "You're toast, mate."

***

"It's a Christmas card," said Remus, frowning. He reached into a cupboard in the Burrow's kitchen and removed a strip of dried meat from a cup, feeding it to the owl. "It's wishing us all happy and peaceful holidays."

"Yeah?" said Ginny, not particularly interested. "From whom?"

"From Hermione Granger ... Krum," said Remus. "And her new husband." He stroked his chin. "Well, well. This is unexpected, but heart-warming news. I wonder if Minerva has heard."

After the flurry of surprised and pleased exclamations, Fleur huffed, looking up from her chair by the window, where she sat rocking her colicky, whimpering son.

"It ees not unexpected at all," she said with a knowing smile, hefting the baby against her shoulder and patting his back. "Zere, zere, 'ush, my darling. But it ees, indeed, very 'eart-warming."

***

_"More than kisses, letters mingle souls. For, thus friends absent speak."  
~John Donne_

-end-


End file.
